THE VIRGINIA MILITARY INSTITUTE, LEXINGTON, VIRGINIA • MAY 11

From his seat on the speakers’ platform, Scott looked out over the graduating class. Though he tried hard not to, his eyes always came back to one face in the crowd of bright young cadets enduring their last ritual. That face, bearing more of a resemblance to Scott than he would ever admit, was beaming. Nathan Andrew Dixon, Scott’s oldest son, surrounded by his classmates, was looking back up at Scott.

With both father and son overwhelmed by the emotions of the moment, it took a third set of eyes, those belonging to a trained journalist, to put the scene in perspective. Sensing the mood of the assembled graduates, their parents, and the faculty and staff of VMI, Jan Fields-Dixon could not help but pull out a small pad she always carried. Balancing it on her lap, she discreetly scribbled her thoughts as they came. “It is a meeting of generations. Upon the dais, aloof and perhaps a bit world weary, sit the older generation. They face a generation that will, in time, replace them. From below, the eyes of bright young men and women look up into the eyes of their elders, their mentors, their heroes. Those longing gazes are returned emotionlessly by old men who see in the fresh young faces before them the faint shadows of dreams they, themselves, once cherished. Between the two lies the great gulf of time and long journeys through a troubled world that scarred and maimed them while, paradoxically, it has nurtured their sons and daughters and fostered their hopes and aspirations.”

Always curious about everything his stepmother did, Scott’s second son looked over to see what she was writing. With a smile, he poked Jan in the arm with his elbow. “Dad’s not going to be thrilled,” he whispered, “that you’re referring to him as an old man.”

Jan smiled as she closed her notebook and returned it to her purse. “Your father has always had difficulty dealing with reality.”

Unable to suppress his laughter, the younger Dixon let out a hoot that caused everyone around him, including his own mother, to turn and give him angry, annoyed looks. Though Jan didn’t embarrass easily, she did turn an appropriate shade of red while reaching over with her right hand and slapping her stepson’s hand hard enough to give an audible snap. This quick administration of justice was enough to satisfy the other parents gathered to watch their sons and daughters graduate. When they had turned their attention back to the address being delivered by the superintendent of the Institute, Scott’s second son leaned over and whispered in Jan’s ear. “Do you suppose he’s prepared any remarks?” Then, he added with a smirk, “Or is he winging it, as usual?”

This annoyed Jan. Scott never seemed to prepare his speeches beforehand. “What happens,” she asked him in frustration once after her admonishments to him to write something down had been stonewalled, “if you get up there and nothing comes to mind?”